


the recklessness of water

by therm0dynamics



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (one of these things ain't like the others), Angst, Backstory, Emotions, Fluff, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4755053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therm0dynamics/pseuds/therm0dynamics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And he thinks, not for the first time, that Napoleon is far too easy with his most dangerous secrets. Illya knows by now that even under pain of death Napoleon would never reveal the things that’d hurt him or Gaby or endanger Waverly or end the world. </p><p>But the things that could destroy Napoleon <i>himself</i> - he’d just gladly handed them all away, simple as anything, as he laid spread out in bed under the man who’d been his sworn rival not half a year ago, unguarded and pliable and completely at his mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the recklessness of water

**Author's Note:**

> hey hi hello ok i know i have another story in progress, but i’m going to set that aside for now while i figure out what to do with it. please accept this instead as a peace offering.
> 
> basically what happened here was 1. apparently napoleon canonically speaks japanese 2. i imagined henry cavill with tattoos 3. well frick me i gotta write this shit now don’t i. and then it turned into this super fuckin indulgent thing i’m soRRY. 
> 
> all the factual stuff (i.e. body art, japan, japanese body art) is either based on personal experience / informal research, so no offense meant if anything’s wrong. title from "nightswimming" by r.e.m.!!

Their mission in Japan is to skiptrace the internationally wanted leader of some nationalist terrorist cell or other who’d broken out of Japanese custody, and it seems to Illya that, for the ten days the task requires, Napoleon has the time of his life. They end up chasing the elusive man the entire length and breadth of Tokyo and the surrounding countryside as well, through temples and back alleys and rice fields and nightclubs and, for the grand finale, the city's sprawling subway tunnels.

Napoleon’s grinning like a fool the entire time, buying Illya small trinkets and unidentifiable but invariably tasty confectionaries to eat and trying to teach him Japanese phrases only to laugh at his pronunciation and tour-guiding him around every stop they make. In fact, he could swear they make a few _extra_ detours for this express purpose, and it’d be irritating except Napoleon apparently knows the city so well that they actually catch this guy well before the deadline Waverly's imposed on them. 

 _This is the shrine where this-and-this historical event happened, this is the bar where something else rather historic happened,_ personally _historic, if you catch my drift -_

It’s the most fun he’s had on a mission in a long while. Come to think of it, it had hardly felt like work. More like an extended vacation occasionally punctuated by gunfights and wild steeplechases which, in Illya’s experience, is what all his vacations are like, anyway. And it’s clear that Tokyo suits Napoleon perfectly. It’s as loud, fast, and chaotic as he is, and glittering and cultured and spirited, too bizarre to comprehend at times, but overall, utterly charming. Just like him.

\--

In the end, they catch the bad guy, bundle him off to the Ministry of Justice, and stumble back to their hotel in Tokyo the night before they’re due to fly out, a whole twelve hours ahead of schedule. Napoleon’s blindingly cheerful mood still hasn’t abated. He prattles on to the matronly concierge in Japanese, the strange fluid syllables of the language lilting easy off his tongue, practically skips up the stairs to their room, and whistles as he helps sweep the room for bugs and other potentially nasty surprises.

As soon as it’s designated all-clear, Illya claims the bathroom first, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at Napoleon as he closes the door in his face. Childish, maybe, but he’s sore and dirty and exhausted. When he emerges from the shower not ten minutes later, refreshed and considerably more awake, Napoleon’s standing pensively by the open window, looking out, a drink in hand.

“I was going to retire here eventually, you know. Not to Tokyo specifically, but definitely Japan,” Napoleon comments, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t some part of his deeply shadowed part of his history he’d suddenly thrown into sharp relief. As he turns around and puts his glass down, his expression takes on a melancholy edge and he deliberately avoids looking at Illya. Illya freezes in place, waiting for clarification. But Napoleon, in his usual way, just shrugs it off and says, “alas, the best laid schemes of mice and men.” 

And disappears into the bathroom.

Illya stares at the spot Napoleon just occupied, puzzled. Napoleon's capriciousness is in a category all his own.

He’s momentarily distracted from his partner’s flightiness when he picks his jacket up from off his bed, intending to pack it, and something _clinks_ in one of his pockets. He reaches in and pulls out a jangling handful of yen coins, a box of matches, and a carved wood figurine no bigger than the first joint of his thumb - a cat with its paw raised and a smile on its feline face. It's blithely beckoning demeanor reminds Illya of Napoleon, on some abstract level, as all things in this country seem to. 

In the other pocket, there’s a beer bottle cap, a scrap of paper on which he’d jotted down something no longer important, and three carefully wrapped pink-colored sweets. Illya remembers Napoleon charming them off some hapless shopkeeper during one of their reconnaissance trips. He’s forgotten all about them in the rush of the chase. 

He unwraps the candy, more like a bonbon, really, sniffs at it cautiously, and eats it whole. It’s soft, sticky, and delicately sweet in a floral kind of way. Like rose water, but less cloying. Delicious, as with all the other strange delicacies he's been made to try. He eats the other ones slowly, savoring them, carefully flattens the wrappers and tucks them back in his pocket.

And since Napoleon’s opened the Pandora’s Box with his previous comment, Illya starts to wonder again. When had Napoleon come to Japan before? And why? What _exactly_ had happened to him in the various bars and back streets of the cities they’d visited? His Japanese, as attested to by the locals, was close to native speaker proficiency. Not exactly, but _close_ \- how long had he stayed here?

 _And how long does it possibly take to shower?_ Illya silently grumbles, after close to an hour of silent meditation and an inconclusive game of solitaire chess. He knows Napoleon has a tendency toward meticulous personal maintenance, but this is ridiculous, even for him.

And because he’s _not_ concerned about his mercurial flighty temperamental idiot partner, he’s _not_ , he goes over to the bathroom and presses his ear to the wooden door. There’s no sound from inside. He tries the doorknob. Unlocked. The door swings open noiselessly and -

 _Oh_.

“ _Bozhe moi,_ ” Illya breathes.

Napoleon has _tattoos_. He’s covered in them. 

Starting from his wrists, swathes of ink curl up his arms, spreading across his chest and skimming over the back of his shoulders, dipping down his spine - a tapestry of dense and intricate designs Illya can’t make out clearly from this distance, just an overall impression of bright and stunning flashes of color and line traced on pale skin -

Almost instantly Napoleon startles from where he’d been standing in front of the mirror, towel around his hips and hands braced on the sink. A hurt and furious scowl twists across his face and he slams the door shut with a _bang_ that echoes like a gunshot in the dead still air of the hotel room.

Except there’s nothing funny about it now, and Illya swears under his breath and squeezes his eyes shut.

But it’s too late.

\--

The bathroom has no other escape route, so Illya is forced to accept that he’ll have to face Napoleon sooner or later.

And though Illya’s a great fighter and a crack shot and the KGB’s (ex) best soldier, one thing he’s terrible at is regret. It’s such a ponderous, useless, _inefficient_ emotion. But the worst thing one can do in this line of work can do is to spy on a fellow agent, particularly if they’re on the same side, _especially_ if it’s one’s partner. It bespeaks a lack of trust - which is why Illya’s stopped bug-and-tracking Napoleon awhile back. And for whatever it’s worth this time, he really is sorry. His traitor heart, sitting like a waterworn lump of stone in his chest, tells his mind as much.

It takes Napoleon another quarter of an hour, but he finally emerges, wearing loose pajamas that fully cover his arms. By then, Illya’s crafted a halting apology he intends to just give and get it over with so they can go back to pretending to hate each other, but he's immediately distracted because Napoleon sighs and runs a hand through his hair, and his shirt collar pulls slightly askew and Illya can see the smallest sliver of color exposed under the hem.

“Illya - ” Napoleon starts, looking at the beige wallpaper like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

It's close to disturbing and very _literally_ breathtaking how badly Illya's itching to pull Napoleon's shirt open the rest of the way, to stand him still and strip him bare, to look, to _touch_ \- because -

“Show me,” Illya says, and Napoleon’s suddenly staring at him, focused and intense - 

 _Because it’s beautiful._ _Because_ he’s _beautiful._

 _Oh_ , Illya thinks, and he’s so busy mentally parsing that revelation - was _that_ really the big reveal, could it really be so simple, how did it take so fucking _long_ to arrive at this conclusion - that he nearly misses the string of emotions that flicker across Napoleon’s face. Confusion, offense, suspicion. Astonishment. Then hesitation. Then the barest glimmer of dawning realization.

Second on that list of things Illya isn’t good at is _people_. But he has the same feeling now as he does when he knows he’s one move away from a spectacular, never-see-it-coming checkmate, agitation and victorious elation, so he strides over to Napoleon and grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him.

For an eternal second that feels like uncontrolled freefall, Napoleon stands deer-in-headlights, still as a statue under him. Illya fears that maybe he’s gotten this horribly wrong, that maybe his treacherous pride, third entry on his list of flaws, has gotten the better of him, perhaps fatally _._

But then Napoleon relaxes, the slightest uncurving of his shoulders, and a dizzying wave of relief rushes through Illya. And he thinks that even after all he’s been through, that flashfrozen point of time could easily be the most frightening moment of his life. And then he can’t think coherently anymore because Napoleon opens for him and the rough, graceless kiss turns all sweet and slow and dirty.

Forget thieving and spying, Napoleon was born to do  _this_ . He kisses like he knows nothing else in the world.

With a fluid motion, Napoleon presses himself against Illya, knees to chest, one hand cupped lightly around the back of Illya’s head and the other one around his waist, pulling them flush together. Illya gasps at the sudden contact and Napoleon licks into his mouth, chasing the lingering sweetness of the candy he’d eaten. He draws back, smiling.

“Did you like it?”

“I did,” Illya says, and he knows Napoleon means the candy, but Illya means it about so much more _-_ all the other things Napoleon had bought or stolen for him, edible or otherwise, the little cat figurine nestled in his left jacket pocket, the handful of imprecise Japanese he now knows. The long, hectic, meandering path that’s led them here.

 _Here_ , Illya thinks, and slowly slides one hand down Napoleon’s chest, tracing the hem of his collar. Napoleon chuckles softly. 

“Goodness, Peril. Seduction for the extraction of information. You’re learning quickly. Do tell, who is this marvellous teacher of yours?”

“He is an egomaniac, thief, and terrible spy.”

They’re talking hushed and close, no room for the words to hang between them.

“And let me guess. A bourgeois capitalist American pig as well?”

“Is correct.”

“He sounds like a great guy.”

“One of the best.”

“That is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about him,” Napoleon says, and reaches back and pulls his shirt off.

\-- 

“ _Irezumi_ ,” Napoleon offers helpfully from where he lays sprawled out beneath Illya. They’re both piled on the same bed not meant for two men their size, but the tight, warm tangle feels effortless and comfortable, so Illya doesn’t mind. “That’s what they call it here. A highly respected craft historically, but now, bearing this kind of art is considered the mark of a criminal.”

“Is appropriate,” Illya scoffs, and Napoleon smiles slightly. Pensively.

“The man who put this on me said as much.”

Left arm first. Illya runs his fingers up Napoleon’s forearm, through the crook of his elbow, tracing the long, sinuous dragon that winds and loops its way from wrist to shoulder. It rests on a sea of what seem to be waves and flowers, although the endless delicate lines make it hard to see where one part of the design ends and another begins. The colors, too, seem to glow - gradated shades of blue and red and yellow offset by a blue-greenish black. Like watercolors beneath the skin.

“The Japanese believe dragons are guardians of the ocean and shapeshifters capable of turning into any beast or man. Or woman, for that matter. As everchanging as water.”

”Your artist had a sense of humor.”

“I could never be sure if he was mocking or reminding me.”

Illya, as of yet unable to decipher the strange tone of Napoleon’s voice, moves on. Right arm. On this one, done with the same intricate linework and vibrant color, a tiger prowling through a backdrop of clouds and ribbonlike flames, snarling ferociously. A stripe of scar tissue across his bicep mars the design, a gash of smooth pink across the linework and color. Illya rubs at it and frowns a little.

“You’re a lot like him,” Napoleon says, reaching up to curve his hand gently around the back of Illya’s neck. “My artist. He would’ve liked you. He was practical, always obsessed with finding the balance in things. ‘S why he put a tiger there. Polar opposite and mortal enemies of the dragon. Water, fire, left hand, right hand. Can’t have one without the other. That one is a reminder, I think.” 

“How do you know all this?” Illya asks.

“Because I grew up here,” Napoleon says, like this is common knowledge and he’s frankly _shocked_ Illya doesn’t know. “For a time, anyway. For all the years that counted.”

“Hm.”

It really is the simplest explanation for Napoleon’s deeply ingrained familiarity with the local culture and the language, his intimate knowledge of the city and the country. Illya just never imagined the existence of this possibility, or how it could ever have come to be. 

“My dad was in the Navy,” Napoleon says, answering the unasked question. He squirms around a bit, raising his arm to show Illya another tattoo on the side of his ribs of a three-masted sailboat about the size of the palm of his hand, charging prow-first through a line of cresting breakers, leaving billowing clouds in its wake. But done in a different style - thicker and simpler lines, flatter and plainer colors. “We moved around quite a bit, but he ended up permanently stationed here in a laudably idealistic, but ultimately misguided attempt to keep the peace between Japan and Manchuria. My artist and I were the best of friends growing up. He taught me most of what I knew about sleight of hand.” 

“But the Army - ”

“I only moved back to the States after, ah, that day which shall forever live in infamy. And only so I could join the Army out of that same idealistic but misguided sense of … I can’t even recall how I justified it to myself now. Patriotism? Justice? Righteous indignation? _He_ called it blind stupidity.”

“Your father?”

“No. My father was dead by then, killed in a border skirmish just off Vladivostok. Maybe that’s why I enlisted. Honor the old man’s memory and all.” 

“Your artist,” Illya starts, and he’s slowly starting to put the puzzle together in his mind, and he’s not entirely sure he likes what he finds. “Is he why you were going to retire to Japan?”

Napoleon doesn’t answer. Stops smiling, as well.

“You loved him,” Illya says, and it comes out far more like an accusation that he intends.

“Very much,” Napoleon says. Bitter, irrational jealousy settles heavily in Illya’s ribcage; _God_ , he thinks, but he’s got it bad.

“He lives here in Tokyo?”

“No. Last I saw of him, he was living in Hokkaido, some village in the mountains that doesn’t even have a name, I don’t think. One road in and out, six hours’ hike through the woods each way. That’s where I was going to go, eventually. If someone had thought to look for me there, then I’d have willingly given myself up to that kind of prowess.”

“And when was that?”

“After the Army. I’d visit him for a month or two at a time between my various business transactions in Europe, and he’d use me for target practice, as he called it. Adding a little more every time.”

And here Napoleon shifts under Illya, turning over to lie prone on the bed. His tattoos continue onto his back. There’s that small cheerful cat again, the same one Illya has sitting in his pocket, one paw raised and the other holding a scroll decorated with strange, sharp Japanese characters. 

“Lucky cat,” Napoleon mumbles. “Supposed to bring good fortune and a lot of money.”

Unsurprising. Illya snorts.

“What does it say?”

“ _Kaito_ ,” Napoleon declares with a flourish, even though it’s half-muffled by the pillow. “The gentleman thief. It’s what he used to call me - can you believe they have a word just for that concept? There must be a lot of my kind out here. All the more reason to be here, I think. Anyway, _that_ one’s definitely mockery.”

As the wild menagerie of fanciful beasts and curious flora trail down his back, the colors slowly fade to just outlines, until those vanish as well at the dip of his spine.

“He never got to finish,” Illya says, and splays his fingers over another scar that looks like a burn mark, spreading like carelessly spilled water over Napoleon’s back, marring the fine linework.

“Yeah. After the CIA got to me, I couldn’t slip the short man with the long leash he had around my balls, as you so poetically put it back in London. I haven’t seen my artist since. Wouldn’t even know his name anymore.”

“Why?” Illya says.

“I knew him when he was only an apprentice at his craft, but I expect he’s become a full _horishi_ by now. They’re given new names when that happens. A new identity entirely.” 

“None of this was in your file,” Illya says, nudging Napoleon to turn back over so they’re once again face-to-face.

“I’m not surprised. All this is classified far above your pay grade. Likely above my handlers', as well. It makes it easier for the CIA to whore me out to the shitlisted supervillain of the week if they don’t think of me as an actual human being,” Napoleon says, without acrimony.

The resignation in that statement sparks a familiar seething anger in Illya’s chest, but even now, as he struggles to keep his temper in check, he has to laugh at the sick symmetrical irony of this world, Napoleon’s new life erasing the hallowed memory of his old one. Figuratively. Literally.

Illya traces two fingers down another long, ropy stripe of scar tissue carving through the likeness of a nine-tailed fox creeping slyly around his collarbones. Knife, serrated edge, likely German-made. Illya knows how badly stab wounds tend to heal. Napoleon shivers under him, a tremor Illya feels down his whole body as well, pressed together as they are.

It’s no wonder. Illya had thought it was all just pure stupid vanity, Napoleon’s fastidious preening, his resolute prudishness about undressing where others could see him, his determination to wear long sleeves even in the hottest climates. His defiant refusal to let anyone treat his injuries after missions, instead preferring to barricade himself in the bathroom for hours to do it himself, despite Gaby’s constant threats to break down the door by force.

Illya sees it for what it is now: a last-ditch effort to keep hold of the little that still belonged to him in this world, shuffled as he was between different masters and different targets week to week. A fiercely protected reminder of what sounded like a much happier time. The one constant, maybe, about his very being, given the nature of his job in particular.

_As everchanging as water._

And he thinks, not for the first time, that Napoleon is far too easy with his most dangerous secrets. Illya knows by now that even under pain of death Napoleon would never reveal the things that’d hurt him or Gaby or endanger Waverly or end the world.

But the things that could destroy Napoleon _himself_ \- he’d just gladly handed them all away, simple as anything, as he laid spread out in bed under the man who’d been his sworn rival not half a year ago, unguarded and pliable and completely at his mercy.

It’s the kind of recklessness that could get him worse than killed, and Illya doesn’t want to entertain that possibility, doesn’t even want to consider it as a possibility. And it’s a humbling, fearsome revelation, but he has never been so certain that he, without question, would give his life for this man. Napoleon apparently reads his mind, because he pulls Illya down again and kisses him until he’s moaning and trembling with it, all the shifting points of contact between them arcing like lightning against his skin.

“Did it hurt?” Illya asks when they finally part, voice barely above a whisper, and Napoleon chuckles. 

“You know, Peril, most would lead with that question. Sometimes I wonder how that brain of yours works.”

“Did it?” Illya insists, unwilling to be distracted.

“It did, quite a bit,” Napoleon admits, mumbling the words into the hollow of Illya’s throat. “But worth it in the end. The best things usually are.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is maybe not as polished as i’d like but i got tired of staring at it so. also, now y’all know that my headcanon is that napoleon’s a military brat. it’s probably v historically inaccurate, but … eh. hope you enjoyed this, please let me know what you think!!


End file.
